


a lick and a promise

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship Is The Best Ship, Gen, Pre-Canon, and also not kill each other, can confirm McCree gets drunk, two losers trying to find their way in Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: “I am pretty goddamn tired and it occurs to me that the trouble with life is that it is long.” -Martha Gellhorn(She’s a medical genius wise beyond her years. He’s a gunslinger with a deadeye second to none. They’re both far too young and in too deep. Pre-canon)





	

"Nice place," the boy comments.

Angela declines to reply, neatly giving the speaker her back—still keeping him in her line of sight by using the reflective surface of a stainless steel tray she has propped up on the counter for this exact purpose.

He cocks his head to the side, and she watches in the reflection as his matted hair falls unevenly into his glittering, coal-dark eyes.

"You ain't one for talkin', are ya?"

She loathes his accent. She loathes everything about him, truthfully—the dirt he tracked in, the sly smile he'd tossed her way, the fact that she _knows_ this is the same member of the Deadlock Gang who _shot Torbjörn_ —but his accent is at least near the top of the list she's been writing in her head since he was brought to her infirmary.

"I am very vocal when there is something worthwhile to discuss," she returns coolly, eyes trained on the syringe she's prepping.

She can practically _feel_ his cocksure grin.

"Yeah, I'll bet yer pretty _vocal_. Uptight gals like you are always the loudest in the sack."

He chuckles at his own joke, and she turns to give him a look of dead disinterest over her shoulder.

"How vulgar," she remarks, not a glimmer of interest in her voice. Reyes _owes_ her for this, he has no _idea—_

He flashes her a grin that prominently displays a chipped tooth that she can't help but catalogue, even though there isn't a chance in hell she's going to do anything about it.

Make Reyes hire a damned dentist. It's not her problem.

"Sweetheart, you ain't _seen_ vulgar yet," he promises her in a low, gravelly voice that she knows is something he's fabricated. There's no possible way the natural cadence of this skinny beanpole of an arms dealer sounds like _that_.

But Angela has a choice to make. Because on the one hand—he's bluffing. Rather impressively so, if she's being honest, but a bluff is a bluff and she can call them with utter confidence. He's scared, cornered, and injured, so his natural course of action is to lash out and establish dominance.

Her lips twitch at the thought.

Dominance? Over _her?_

Not in this lifetime.

She turns to face him, leaning up against the counter and arching an eyebrow.

On the other hand: she's Angela fucking Ziegler.

And no one—not the President of the UN and certainly not some some lanky American punk—is going to treat her with disrespect in her own damn infirmary.

"The only one who is going to be any kind of _fucked_ is _you_ if you insist on harassing me instead of letting me do my _job,"_ she tells him, voice cold and hard with authority. "Which, for the record, is preventing the untimely end of your very sad existence."

Silence. The boy just stares at her, cocky grin long gone, eyes somewhat wide.

She flashes him a smile that's all teeth.

_"_ _Begreifen?"_ her native language is even harsher. She watches as his Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow.

"I…uh…" he fumbles for words, still just staring at her. "Sorry?"

She rolls her eyes, giving him her back again as she returns to the syringe.

"Keep your tastelessness to yourself," is her dismissive answer. "I like to keep my infirmary clean."

She can still feel his gaze across her shoulders—while his entire countenance is rather underwhelming, his eyes are sharp as a fresh knife—and does her best to ignore it as she goes back to readying the medicine. Manners aside—the boy is in rough shape. Reyes hadn't given her much of an explanation when he'd brought him in. She had no files, no medical history.

Reyes hadn't even told her the kid's _name_.

"Y'ain't gonna kill me?"

Angela blinks, frowning to herself as she stills her movements.

"What?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder, peering at him from around an errant lock of hair.

He's staring her down. She refuses to duck his gaze.

He gestures to the syringe in her grasp—the movement takes both of his hands, as he's cuffed at the wrists and ankles. Angela had insisted to Reyes that it wasn't necessary, but he'd hauled the hogtied arms dealer in anyway, all but throwing him up on her operating table before storming out.

"Of course I'm not going to kill you," she tells him, frowning back. "Why would I do that?"

The boy just shrugs noncommittally. His eyes are buckshot dark, and Angela can feel the weight of them keenly across her back when she turns again.

"I'm a doctor," she says, because maybe he doesn't know? She picks up the syringe, an alcohol wipe, and a bandage before turning back.

Her slender fingers had hovered over the bright pink Hello Kitty Band-Aids she'd collected for the children she sometimes treats, but she'd decided against it. Insult to injury or something like that.

"Yeah," he says, eyeing her warily as she steps up beside the table. "An _Overwatch_ doctor."

Angela's brow furrows as she rolls up his sleeve—his shirt is dark and crusted with dirt and old blood, his skin littered with scars—and wipes down his bony shoulder with the alcohol pad.

"What do you mean by that?" she asks softly, peering up at him.

He glances over to meet her gaze, and she's struck again at the ferocity she sees there. His body is falling apart, but his eyes remain overbright and wild.

"Jus' go ahead and put me out, Doc," he tells her, his voice leaking with sudden exhaustion.

She gives him another hard look—she's going to have a long talk with Reyes after this, that's for damn sure—before readying the syringe.

"I will see you when you wake up…" she trails off, hesitating, suddenly feeling embarrassed at her slip. "Er…what was your name?"

She braces herself for a smartass response, or maybe just a dead stare.

Instead, he flashes her a quick grin—a sly, practiced thing that she knows intuitively is familiar on his face.

"Name's McCree."

-0-

"He's got to _go."_ Morrison's voice leaves no room for argument.

"You haven't even given him a _chance_ , Jack!" Reyes argues back.

"He _had_ his chance. And you know what he did with it? Joined up with the _Deadlock Gang—"_

"He was _forced_ into that and you fucking _know_ it—"

"If we give every outlaw we come across a second chance—"

"Well if we just haul off and kill 'em then what makes us any better than the fuckin' gangs in the first—"

"Overwatch is not a _gang_ , Gabe—"

"It's not a dictatorship either!"

Angela sighs to herself as she sits outside the infirmary. _Her_ infirmary, as it happens. The one that Reyes and Morrison have repurposed into goddamn arena.

But she knows better than to step in between a spat as bad as this one is shaping up to be, so she just sits with her back to the wall, leafing through reports as she waits for the soldiers to stop acting like children.

She wishes Ana were here. No one can call those two to order like the sharpshooter.

Angela's turning over another form—she's hesitant to clear Reinhardt for combat because she _knows_ his shoulder is still bothering him—when she hears the telltale thud that she knows without a doubt belongs to a pair of goddamn cowboy boots.

"Mc _Cree,"_ she grumbles without looking up, finishing off her signature with an angry flourish before raising her gaze to see the outlaw himself ambling towards her from down the hall.

"What are you _doing?"_ she demands, pushing to her feet. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

He looks pretty good for someone who had been just a little dead the last time she saw him. His hair is clean, his wounds patched and wrapped under pristine white bandages, and the shallow, gaunt look to his face has filled out. He's wearing a spare Overwatch shirt, and she's only mildly surprised that there's a real, actual human underneath all the dirt and grime and blood.

He's a long way from full recovery, but he's no longer loitering on Death's door, so Angela will take the victory where she can.

Still. He _shouldn't_ be out of bed.

His expression had been drawn and dark when she'd first spotted him, but now that he's caught, she watches it bloom into that arrogant smirk he'd fixed her with back in the infirmary.

"Hey there, sweetheart," he greets her, but she notes the nickname lacks some of its previous bite.

"Don't _hey there_ me," Angela warns, stepping closer with a frown. "And don't call me _sweetheart_ unless you have a death wish."

He shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Whatever ya say," he relents. _"Darlin'."_

"Call me Angela or Dr. Ziegler. Or—better yet—don't call me at all." She sort of pushes him back away from the infirmary, unsure how to best get him to bend to her will. "Now get back to bed. You aren't supposed to be on your feet for another day at least."

He doesn't budge under her hands, and she blinks in surprise as the sudden tensing of his muscles. For a scrawny arms dealer, he's got some brawn.

"Dr. Ziegler?" he questions, peering down at her in confusion. God, what she wouldn't give to have about four more inches so she wouldn't have to look up at him.

"Yes, _doctor,"_ she makes a shooing gesture. "As in, the one who can easily alter your medical itinerary to keep you in bed for another week and a half, _darlin'."_

The Southern sobriquet sounds awful in her accent, but McCree doesn't even rise to the dig. He just keeps staring at her, slowly walking backwards as she keeps pushing him towards the med bay.

"Yer a doctor?" The disbelief in his tone is insulting to say the least. Besides, hadn't they covered this? He really must have been out of it their first meeting. Not that he missed anything spectacular.

"I am," she confirms, following him through the halls, passing a few other agents who look up in mild confusion to see Angela Ziegler herding the scrappy outlaw Reyes' had hauled in yesterday around the base. "So some respect wouldn't be the worst idea you've had here."

"Yer like—" he gestures pointlessly with one hand. "Fifteen!"

Angela bristles, eyes narrowing to slits.

"I am twenty-one, thank you _very_ much," she snaps at him. Not exactly true—she'll be twenty for about six more months, but _he_ doesn't need to know that.

McCree pulls a face. "What kinda doctor is twenty-one?" he demands. "Did ya come outta the womb with a fuckin' college degree or—?"

"The kind who got accepted to University early and finished a seven-year program in _four,"_ she throws back at him. "And you don't have any room to talk. You can't be any older than me!"

That cocky smirk returns as Angela keeps forcing him backwards towards the med bay, and her hand itches with the need to punch it off his face.

"I'm twenty-five," he brags, flashing a grin.

"Oh bull _shit,"_ she retorts rolling her eyes. "Absolutely not. I don't believe that for a second."

"An' you expect me to believe that Overwatch hired on some eighteen year-old?"

_"_ _Twenty-one."_

"Show me yer license and maybe I'll believe ya."

She huffs and he smirks. He's toying with her. Fucker.

"You expect me to believe the Deadlock Gang took on some scrawny teenager?" she asks harshly, giving his chest a solid shove to push him through the door to the med bay, glaring up at him.

McCree's coal-dark eyes go flat. She's touched a nerve.

"I don' really expect much from anyone. 'Specially doctors."

He spits her title like it's toxic. She pulls her lips back in a snarl.

"It's not wise to make enemies with the person responsible for saving your life, you know," she tells him sharply.

He just scoffs at her. "You lost yer chance at the upper hand. You want me gone? Shoulda let me die on that table."

Silence falls between them—heavy and tense.

Angela knows she should leave—there's nothing to gain from a fight with him—but her pride rails at her until she gives him one last push, forcing him to sit down hard on the edge of his cot.

"I will tell you this, _McCree,"_ her voice is dark and deadly, and the outlaw freezes, clearly realizing the end of Angela's light temper and the start of true anger. "You had better hope—to whatever it is you put your faith it—that you _never_ find out what kind of research I do, and the kind of medical advancements I have made."

She gives him one last severe look before turning to stride out, keen to grab a guard and use whatever bullshit authority she has to station him outside of the outlaw's room so she doesn't have to see his face for another twenty-four hours.

"Why not?" McCree calls after her, unable to let things go.

She turns to assess him over her shoulder, eyes supernova bright.

"Because that means you'd be _dead."_

-0-

The next time she sees McCree, he's wearing an enormous cowboy hat.

There's still an uncomfortable tension—they haven't quite patched things up, and she still absolutely hates his guts—but McCree makes the first move at what she assumes is his idea of a peace offering.

"Like it?" he asks when he catches her staring, flicking the brim and lifting it up just enough to reveal his eyes—shiny and black as oil with a quicksand draw.

"I hate it," she answers breezily as she steps into the infirmary, dropping her gaze to look over the chart in her hands. "So, Reyes wants to get you cleared for the strike team?"

She asks the question with a practiced nonchalance—like she hadn't heard Reyes and Morrison arguing about it while she made herself instant Mac and Cheese in the mess hall at three in the morning.

From what she could gather, Reyes was pushing the redemption narrative—"Give the kid another chance, Jack. I served with soldiers who had been in gangs, it doesn't define you for the rest of your life."—and Morrison was sticking to his holier-than-thou mantra—"The Deadlock Gang has been a thorn in our side for years, Gabe, I'm not going to waste any more time and resources on them!"

But, due to the medical checklist in her hands, it would appear that Reyes won, which is not surprising in the slightest.

Angela, personally, doesn't care one way or another. On the one hand, Morrison's excuse of wasting resources is utter trash—one word to Reyes and Angela could have anything in the world she wanted or needed within the hour. On the other hand, she's not sure why Reyes wants to actually bring the boy onto the _strike team_ , which is, you know, only the most elite military operation in the—

"Darlin'?"

Angela jumps, snapping her head up to see McCree peering at her, head titled to the side from his seat on the operating table. "Y'all right there?" he asks. "Thought ya powered down er somethin'."

She gives him a frosty look for the comment.

"I'm not an _Omnic."_

"Coulda fooled me. Ya sleep about as much as one."

She clicks her pen, declining to comment.

"So, _Jesse_ McCree," she drawls, glancing up to see if the use of his first name rankles him. He gazes back at her passively. She dips her eyes back down with a silent curse. "You have never had any kind of medical check-up in your life." She skims the list. "No previous doctor, no past treatments, no prescriptions, no surgeries, no medical history whatsoever."

Her tone drips annoyance, and her gaze is accusatory when she lifts it back up to his. McCree just shrugs.

"While you were off grauduatin' early an' curin' cancer, I was…doin' other things," he answers. A pause. "Cutter once made me down a fifth of vodka 'n dug a bullet outta my leg. Does that count as surgery?"

"No," she replies mildly, scribbling down some notes. "My apologies to Dr. Cutter. His credentials didn't hold up."

He snorts at her quip, and she glances up to see him smirking—but not that awful, cocky smirk he likes to flash. Just a genuine twist of his lips.

"What?" she asks, frowning.

"Whaddya mean, _what?"_ he retorts, still half-laughing. "Yer such a goddamn _weirdo."_

"I _beg_ your pardon—"

McCree cuts across her indignation. "One second, yer makin jokes about shit, an' the next yer looking at me like the damn Undertaker, tellin' me I gotta _die_ to learn about yer fuckin' _research."_ He spreads his hands. "That's _weird_. Yer _weird."_

"I'm not _weird,"_ she argues. "And I didn't say you had to die to learn about it, I said if you _did_ learn about it, it means you've _already_ died!"

McCree throws his hands in the air. "The fuck does that even _mean?"_

"It means don't die," she retorts, still somewhat sore. "And I'm _not_ weird."

He just shakes his head, chuckling. "I didn' mean to upset ya, Doc." He holds up a hand. "Cowboy's honor."

She rolls her eyes. And yet she's the weird one.

Silence returns, but it's much less prickly than the last time they'd squared off. She finishes most of the document while McCree loiters around the infirmary, occasionally reaching for tools that Angela orders him to leave alone without even looking.

Finally, she can't take it anymore, and she flicks her gaze up to see him fiddling with the cuffs of a flannel button-down she suspects Ana had some hand in purchasing.

"Why did you join Deadlock?" she asks quietly, watching him carefully from around her bangs.

He glances up in surprise and they cross gazes—flint-stones and sapphires.

"Why'd ya join Overwatch?" he questions, peering at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

Her lips quirk, though there's no amusement in her eyes.

"Fair enough, McCree," she tells him, holding the checklist to her chest. "My professional advice to you—assuming you somehow actually see combat as an Overwatch operative—is to stay behind Reinhardt's shield and do whatever Ana tells you."

He frowns at this, but she just offers him a sunny smile and turns to leave.

"Wait, which one's Ana?"

Angela snorts to herself. "She's the one who shoots better than you," she mutters to herself, before something occurs to her and she turns back.

"Oh, and I checked over your genetics. You're twenty as well, but good try." She smiles sweetly again. The one with all the teeth.

McCree looks appalled. "You checked over my _what?"_

-0-

"You asked for my opinion and my answer is _no."_

Angela rakes a hand through her hair—her fingers catch on a tangled knot and she ends up tugging it through roughly, pain spiking as she yanks on the strands—and clutching the communicator to her ear with the other.

_"_ _Yes, but Dr. Ziegler—"_

"There's no _but!"_ Angela shouts back. "Lacroix is not cleared for combat, and he _will not_ be cleared until such time that _I_ —the medical professional on this base—deems otherwise!"

Silence on the other line. Angela chews her lip, anxiously awaiting a response.

_"_ _Very well, Doctor. If that's what you think—"_

"It is," Angela cuts in hotly.

_"_ _I'll pass that along, then. Thank you for your…_ _**insight.** _ _Good day."_

Angela's expression sours as the connection ends, and she leans against the counter, frowning down at the device.

"Well, someone's in a mood."

Angela glares, setting the communicator down on the counter as she glances up to see McCree loitering in the doorway of her infirmary, still wearing that damnable hat. With a huff, she pulls the hair tie out, letting her hair tumble down messily around her shoulders.

"Do you need something?" she asks unkindly, dragging her fingers through her hair to try to work out some of the knots. She wonders vaguely when she last brushed it.

"I think," he begins, and she gives him a dark look that clearly communicates how much she doesn't care what he thinks, "that when they ask fer yer _opinion_ , they really jus' what ya to tell 'em what they wanna hear."

"I am aware," she replies, probably a bit more prickly than strictly necessary. She sweeps her hair back up, tying it off in an untidy ponytail. "I also don't _give_ a shit."

His lips split with that crooked smile he'd given her back in the med bay after her quip about Cutter. She notices his tooth is no longer chipped and wonders idly who fixed it.

"Yer ornery." He says it like a statement of fact.

She narrows her eyes. "I'm a professional."

His smile grows. The rim of his hat hides his eyes, but she can still feel them.

"What did you come here for, McCree?" she asks sharply, hands on her hips. "I really prefer not to be bothered arbitrarily."

He freezes at this, and Angela arches an eyebrow, waiting.

"Suppose I needed somethin'," he begins.

Angela sighs heavily, lifting an annoyed eyebrow. "Don't play games. Talk straight or leave."

He grimaces at her no-nonsense tone, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans.

"I need a favor," he rushes out.

There's a beat of absolute silence in the infirmary.

"A favor." Her words couldn't be flatter.

_"_ _Please._ I'll owe ya. And a debt from me ain't nothin'."

Angela huffs a sigh. She doesn't even want to think about the kind of debts McCree has fulfilled in the past.

"It depends," she answers, leaning up against the counter. "If it's not related to the infirmary, I can't really help you." She gestures to the phone that lies facedown beside her. "As you can see, I'm not exactly good at currying favor." Her eyes narrow. "And that assumes I'd want to help you at all."

McCree shifts his weight between his feet, bouncing a little with the action. Her eyes snap to the movement, cataloguing it as a nervous habit.

"It ain't… _exactly_ related to medicine," he confesses.

Angela frowns. Then why is he asking her?

"What _is_ it?" she demands.

"I have a belt buckle," he explains quickly. "It's been mine since before the Deadlock Gang—since ferever. They took all my stuff when they picked me up. Reyes gave me m' hat back—mostly 'cause I wouldn't stop pesterin' him about it—but he won' gimmie the belt buckle."

Angela just arches an eyebrow, almost daring him to continue wasting her time.

He does.

"They still have my gun, an' all my bullets, which I get. But my belt buckle ain't gonna hurt anyone." He folds his arms. "I was _hopin'_ you could sweet talk it outta Morrison's claws. Ya follow?"

"A belt buckle?" she repeats dubiously. "McCree, be serious please."

"I'm bein' serious!" he insists. "C'mon, please?"

Angela sighs. If the item really is being held by Morrison's people, it wouldn't be that hard for her to get it back. She could weave together some bullshit excuse easily. She's done it before, though never for a damn _belt buckle._

Giving him a stern look, she reaches for the communicator. "You _owe_ me," she reminds him fiercely.

He nods earnestly, and Angela rolls her eyes, dialing the number.

Some tech picks up, and Angela wastes no time in dropping every name she knows, and a few she probably doesn't have the authority to mention, as she rattles off a dozen-odd ridiculous reasons as to why she needs whatever belt buckle they have in their possession.

_"_ _The…the one from the Deadlock Gang, ma'am?"_ the tech asks feebly a moment later.

"That's the one," she affirms, twirling a loose lock of hair around her finger, already making a mental list of things she can ask McCree for in exchange for this horseshit.

_"_ _The one that says…um, excuse me…BAMF?"_

Angela flicks her eyes up to glance at McCree, who's standing idly in her infirmary, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his pants. He catches her look and offers an awkward smile.

"That's it," she says, lowering her gaze. "Just…send it to the infirmary, please."

The tech agrees and hangs up, and Angela sets the communication device back on the counter with a sigh. It couldn't have been normal. Of course not.

McCree is eyeing her so she glances up to meet his gaze with an arched eyebrow.

"So…yer really like, the end all be all authority on this base?" he asks, looking at her curiously.

Angela scoffs. "Hardly. That was a bunch of hot air." She sighs, absentmindedly pulling down cleaning supplies from a cupboard.

"I'm…not _officially_ on Overwatch's roster," she explains. "I'm here because I was handpicked by Reyes, and backed by Morrison and Amari. My duty was really just to continue my research, but when Overwatch's big three put their stamp of approval on you, you can kind of do whatever you want and nobody looks twice."

She feels his eyes on her—like lightning, or like the flash that runs before the hot report of thunder—but ignores it as she goes about wiping down a tray at her side.

"Ya get attached." His voice is quiet, but still rough.

Angela scoffs to herself, coloring slightly. Why had she run her mouth like that? Stupid.

"Something like that," she bites back, working at a particularly tough stain. "Now leave me alone. I'll give you your belt buckle the next time I see you." She gives him a hard look. "Mister _badass motherfucker."_

McCree goes scarlet. Angela just arches an eyebrow.

"They, uh—" McCree coughs into a fist. "They told ya what it said?"

"They sure did," Angela returns, voice void of any real emotion. "You can leave now. And for the record, you're going to owe me every time I have to look at that belt buckle and remember this conversation, got it?"

He mumbles out an affirmative and ducks out of the room.

-0-

"Angela, look!"

There are few people who can catch and command Angela's attention with only a word or two, but Fareeha Amari is definitely one of them. She stops in her tracks, glancing back to see the young girl standing as tall as she can, hands on her hips, grinning from beneath an enormous cowboy hat that practically engulfs her head.

"What in the world?" Angela turns around completely, half-laughing. "Fareeha, where did—"

McCree steps into her line of sight from the end of the corridor—looking hilariously out of place without his typical hat, his hair an unholy mess atop his head—and he strides up the hallway, scowling at Fareeha with a playfulness that Angela isn't used to seeing around Overwatch's base.

Fareeha squeals when she sees him, dashing up to hide behind Angela, peeking out at the approaching gunslinger from behind her.

"Angela's base!" the little girl announces triumphantly, sticking her tongue out at McCree, who puts his hands on his hips, face falling into an exaggerated expression of shock.

_"_ _Base?"_ he repeats, and Angela cracks a grin at the mock outrage in his voice. "No sir, little miss. Not in my game."

Fareeha just cackles to herself, hugging Angela tighter.

"You look good, Jesse," Angela tells him, smiling lightly. "You look…very not dead, which is not always the case with you."

"He started taking shooting lessons from Mom," Fareeha explains, pushing up the hat with two tiny hands so as to better see Angela.

Angela lifts an eyebrow, looking over at McCree, who's turned mysteriously red and won't meet her gaze.

"Has he now?" she asks, small smile turning into a grin.

"Yep!" Fareeha chirps.

McCree _does_ look better, she notes. He's sporting a kind of breastplate now, and a set of chaps. The shoulder of his shirt proudly displays the Overwatch logo, and a bright red bandana is tied around his neck. Angela has to catch herself from calling the entire collection endearing. He's still a dead shot, and a fully-fledged member of the strike team.

"Well, then congratulations," she says. "You've survived Ana Amari's training. Consider yourself lucky."

"I get all his stuff when he dies, though," Fareeha interrupts, tugging on the hem of Angela's shirt to get her attention again. "He promised."

Angela frowns. "Well, nobody's going to be dying any time soon, Fareeha."

The young girl waves her comment away impatiently. "Not soon," she corrects. "Like, in fifty years or whatever. When he's super old and can't shoot anymore."

Angela snorts at this, looking up to see McCree fighting a smirk of his own as they both listen to Fareeha's continued ramblings.

"I get his hat, his gun, his bullets, his spurs, _and—"_ she ticks the items off her fingers, looking up to fix Angela with a grin. "His belt buckle."

Angela's stomach bottoms out.

"Oh, um, I…are you sure about that, Fareeha?" she asks hesitantly. "I don't know if that's…really your thing?"

"BAMF," Fareeha announces, and Angela winces. "McCree told me it means bad at making friends. It's funny!"

Angela shoots him an accusatory look over the young girl's head. McCree splays his hands uselessly.

"Run along, Fareeha," a voice calls from down the hall, and she jumps to attention as Ana strides up, arching a dark eyebrow at her daughter.

Fareeha mumbles a farewell to McCree, gives Angela's waist a fierce squeeze, before traipsing off, but not before McCree can snatch his hat back off her head and giver her hair a quick ruffle. She shrieks in indignation, ducking his hand, and McCree responds by scooping her up by her underarms and spinning her around, pacing away from Ana and Angela as he does. Fareeha's laughter rings out in the hall, and Ana smiles to herself.

"So," Angela begins, shifting her weight. "Fareeha says you're training him?"

"He's good," Ana answers, still watching as McCree sets Fareeha down and she slaps at his breastplate, begging for him to do it again. "Really. I had my doubts, but…" she trails off with a shrug, looking down to flash a smile at Angela. "I hear you're _darlin'_ now, is that true?"

Angela colors darkly, rearing back from the sharpshooter.

"Abso _lutely_ not," she protests. "I cannot believe you actually _listened—"_

"Oh, _relax_ child," Ana soothes, reaching out with a gloved hand to smooth some of Angela's wild bangs down. "I'm only teasing. He _is_ a charmer though."

"He's horrible." She sighs as Ana drops her arm around her shoulders, pulling her into her side.

"He's family," Ana counters, voice low and serene. She glances down at the young doctor, quirking an eyebrow. "And I don't think I need to tell you, of all people, what the means."

Angela huffs out a laugh, watching as Fareeha mimes a finger gun at the gunslinger, who slaps a hand to his heart, swooning in false death. She listens to Ana's steady heartbeat beneath her ear. A heartbeat she'd fought on many occasions to keep going strong and steady when there were others she hadn't the chance to save.

Yeah, she knows a thing or two about family.

"I suppose," she answers.

-0-

_"_ _This,"_ Angela announces, not bothering to hide the haughty anger in her voice, "is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday night."

McCree snorts, then winces at the pain the action brings. She slaps at his leg to still him, leaning far into his personal space as she inspects a thick gash that runs from his ear to the edge of his jaw, bleeding sluggishly down his face.

"Yeah, 'm sure ya had so many plans," he gripes back at her, staring sullenly at the wall as she works. "Gee, should I stay in an' fill out reports, or stay in an' reorganize the infirmary?" He widens his eyes in mock surprise. "So many options!"

She slaps his leg again. "Shut up," she returns irritably. "There's nothing wrong with doing my job."

"When it's _all_ ya do," he counters, sliding his gaze over to meet hers, still frowning. "Seriously, Ange. Have you ever taken a night fer yerself?"

"Of course," she answers immediately, though no such night comes to mind.

He just scoffs, looking away, and Angela keeps gingerly cleaning his wound.

"Fontaine really did a number on you," she muses softly, eyebrows knitting together. "Isn't there some kind of saying about guns and knife fights?"

McCree grunts crossly. "I wasn't gonna _shoot_ the bastard," he snaps. "An' I sure as hell didn't think he'd _gut_ me like a damn _fish."_

"You're not exactly the most popular agent here, Jesse," she reminds him. "There are a lot of old wounds tied up with the Deadlock Gang. Fontaine can hold a grudge."

"Fontaine can _kiss my ass—"_

She hushes him softly, rolling her eyes at his temper.

Silence settles, like it always does. She works as quickly as she can, noting the distinctly displeased set to McCree's jaw. She fishes around for something—anything—that will make him listen, but eventually decides to just speak plainly.

"Morrison doesn't need another reason to dislike you," she warns him quietly. "Reyes' favor can only get you so far."

McCree scowls. "I don' need anyone's _favor,"_ he gripes.

Angela sits back in her chair, frowning at him.

"I'm only trying to help, Jesse," she reminds him. "I know you're not used to being looked after, but you need to trust that you are. Reyes, Reinhardt, Morrison, Ana, Gèrard…" she trails off. "We look after each other. We trust each other."

He slides his gaze over to hers—eyes flashing, like fire through canon smoke—and she can only stare.

"I trust _you,"_ he mutters, frowning like she's stupid for doubting such a thing, eyes hard like he's daring her—anyone, really—to challenge his statement.

She smiles faintly back at him.

"I'm glad," she says. And she is.

"Now relax your jaw so I can stitch this shit up, okay?"

-0-

Angela lets her breath out steadily, relaxing her shoulders and exhaling slowly through her nose.

Peering down the aisle of the shooting range, she chews her lip, displeased at her performance. She sets down the gun and yanks off her headphones and goggles, vaguely annoyed. She knows marksmanship isn't the find of thing you improve at overnight, but she's also not accustomed to lagging behind in anything she puts her mind to.

"Yer a terrible shot."

Angela just sighs, not evening looking back.

"Do you ever get tired of sneaking up on people?" she asks, still looking down at the target. Her gun lies on the stand before her, still warm from her last round.

She feels him settle at her side, leaning against the opposite wall in the booth. She glances up to see him rubbing his jaw as he studies the target.

"Ya barely clipped his ear."

"I'm _practicing."_

"I _hope_ so."

She bristles, slamming her fist on the button that will swap out her old target for a new one and turns to face him, arms crossed.

"What do you want, Jesse?"

He glances down at her, arching an eyebrow.

"I could give ya some tips," he offers, trying for casual and missing by yards. He coughs awkwardly. "If…if ya wanted, I mean. I'm no Ana Amari but…I know _some_ stuff."

Angela looks up at him curiously. No one—not even Reyes—had ever offered to give her any kind of advice on firearms.

"Why?" she blurts out before she can think better of it, and McCree's face goes slightly red.

"'Cause…'cause you clearly _wanna_ be better. And you're gonna _halfta_ be better if ya wanna get tips from Ana," he says, gesturing lamely at the gun, goggles, and headphones that lay before her. "And…I dunno…" he trails off, hand leaping up to cup the back of his neck in a nervous habit he can't seem to shake.

She considers pressing him, but decides against it. She moves the conversation along to safer grounds for her, uncomfortable with the uncertainty of where he could take this dialogue.

She doesn't like not knowing. Period.

"Who taught you how to shoot?" she asks, tilting her head as she reclines back against the wall of the booth.

He flicks her a sideways look, apparently surprised by her question, but just shrugs.

"Nobody. I jus' watched people, I guess," he explains. "Trial an' error…mostly error, fer a while anyway."

Angela's lips quirk up in a small smile. He continues.

"I kept at it, y'know? Got tired of bein' outdrawn, gettin' left behind. Wanted to make myself useful. It was…" he gestures kind of vaguely with his hands, but Angela knows what he's trying to express. "…it was a bad time. I mean, _now_ I'm glad I did it, but, the actual _act_ of learnin' to shoot…" he flashes her a smirk—the one she doesn't like, the one that's more mask than anything else—and Angela is reminded of weeks she spent holed up in her room during med school, reading and studying and writing and memorizing and critiquing until she felt like she was going to honestly die. She _had_ to. It had never been optional.

If she wasn't the best, then what was the point of her? Why had _she_ survived, if not for this?

She nods. "I know what you mean."

His eyes snap to hers—angry, like he doesn't believe her comparison—before they go dim, and he nods.

"Yeah," he remarks. "Yeah, I bet'cha do."

She picks at the sleeve of her shirt, watching McCree size up the targets in the range. She wonders if she'll have to prompt him to shoot them all down or if he'll jump right to showing off all on his own.

"I was the best shot," he mutters after a moment. "In Deadlock, I mean. An' that ain't just talk. I could really outshoot anyone."

Angela shrugs. "I believe it," she tells him. And she does.

He frowns at her from the edge of his vision like he doesn't buy her sincerity, before he just shrugs. "It's a good thing too," he adds. "If it weren't for my aim, Morrison probably woulda had his way."

"They never would have killed you," Angela tells him firmly. "Not with Reyes there. Not with—" she breaks off, looking away quickly.

McCree's eyebrows vanish behind his hat as he glances down at her, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn't, and he doesn't push her.

They're kind of alike, that way.

"I would like to take you up on your offer, though," she eventually murmurs, crossing her arms and looking down at the new target. She glances up at him through her bangs. "I'd like to…be a slightly _less_ terrible shot, if you'd be willing to help."

McCree's lips quirk. "Yeah?" he asks, and she nods. "Ya fancy yerself a field medic, Doc?"

She frowns at the question, freezing as she reaches for the gun again.

"Field medic?" she repeats, glancing up at him.

He nods. "Sure. I mean…I dunno. You always seemed real hands-on. I was kinda surprised when you didn't just come out into the field with us all."

Angela arches an eyebrow. "I'm not cleared for combat," she states flatly.

That fucking illegal grin is back. "Not _yet_ , you ain't."

She just snorts, waving him off, but her mind begins turning. It's not as though she'd never considered the prospect—there's very little in the medical field she hasn't considered—but she'd never allowed herself to make concrete plans about it. Her thoughts turn back to a suit—winged and armored, allowing her to quickly get to patients, a halo-shaped headpiece…

"Can I say somethin'?" he asks softly, and Angela jumps in surprise.

"Sure," she says quickly, shoving those thoughts away for now.

He hesitates—she shoots him a sideways glance and sees him working his jaw, like he's tasting his words—before seems to make up his mind.

"I'm very, _very_ glad yer on my side," he tells her. He smirks down at her then, the friendly one. The one that pulls a smirk out of her too.

"Terrible shot 'n all."

-0-

_"_ _So,"_ McCree drawls as he sits down beside her at the table.

Angela lets her gaze flick over to his with a raised brow. They typically don't sit next to each other in the mess hall—partly because Angela is in the habit of taking her meals alone at two in the morning and partly because McCree's usually preoccupied with harassing some agent or another—and she feels more than a few gazes on them.

But she just sips at her coffee as he settles alongside her now, broad shoulders brushing against hers, brim of his hat upsetting the smooth fall of her bangs as he inclines his head down towards hers.

"So," she repeats, lacing her fingers around the mug. "What's up?"

McCree sets down his plate—generously full with breakfast food—and glances around like he's missing something. Angela pushes her unused fork forward, and he nods.

"So," she prompts again, arching an eyebrow.

"So," he agrees, picking up the fork. "I went lookin' fer Fontaine today."

Angela cocks an eyebrow. "For purely diplomatic reasons, I'm sure."

McCree snorts, seemingly momentarily distracted at her own lack of a breakfast. He picks a muffin off his plate and plops it in front of her. She ignores it.

"An' wouldn't ya know it—I couldn't find the bastard."

Angela takes another sip. "Tragic."

"Ain't it? So I asked around."

Angela's fingers tense for a moment on the handle of her mug, but she relaxes soon after.

"Asking for help? Are you feeling well?" She reaches up to press the back of her free hand against his forehead, but he ducks it with a sour look.

"An' you'll _never_ guess what Lacriox told me," he continues, giving her a pointed look.

The doctor swallows. She has a guess.

"He's been relocated," McCree stabs a forkful of scrambled eggs, arching an eyebrow at her, "to _Antarctica."_

A beat of silence passes between them. Angela takes another sip of her coffee, dutifully avoiding McCree's gaze by staring down at the muffin.

"I hear it's lovely there this time of year," she eventually offers. "Also, penguins. Antarctica has penguins, right?"

"Angela."

"Plus that cold air is _brilliant_ for clearing out the sinuses." She picks at the muffin's wrappings, wondering what flavor it is. Blueberry?

_"_ _Ange."_

_"_ _What?"_ she demands, finally setting her mug down and turning in her seat to scowl at him. "What do you want, Jesse? A confession? Fine— _I_ did it. You solved the case. Congratulations."

She glares up at him, awaiting his response—she hadn't expected him to follow up with Fontaine, and she's not _overly_ fond of being found out this way, thank you _very—_

She starts as McCree snakes a thick arm around her shoulders to pull her in for a quick squeeze, and she wrinkles her nose as the hair on his chin scratches against her cheek before he pulls back.

"Thanks," he tells her, voice low and honest, giving her a slightly lopsided smile. "Fer lookin' out."

"Yes, well," Angela smooths out her lab coat, loops loose hair behind her ear, clears her throat. "It was the least I could do." A pause. She glances up at him seriously. "Really, that was the least life-threatening thing I could have done."

McCree chuckles. "Ya make it sound like ya had a _list."_

Angela goes still as McCree reaches across the table for a napkin.

The gunslinger glances back at her, frowning at her silence, when he sees the look on her face.

"Ange, you _didn't."_

"I makes lists about everything!" she snaps back at him, faintly flushing. "It's how I best organize my thoughts!"

He just shakes his head, sitting back on his chair.

"Yer a mess."

Angela nurses her coffee, watching as he ducks into his breakfast.

"Probably," she agrees.

McCree snorts through a mouthful of grits. "Eat yer damn muffin."

-0-

"Paraguay?"

"Poor pronunciation, but yes," Angela returns, quickly ducking the gunslinger's hand where he'd shot it out to try and tug on the end of the Santa hat Ana had bullied her into. She looks up to flash him a smile. "Paraguay."

McCree shrugs where he's lounging idly on the desk in Reyes' office while Angela busies herself with gathering the last of the documents he'd filled out. It's not as though Overwatch has anything like a winter break—the Omnic Crisis doesn't exactly take a holiday—but Reyes had told the pair of them they had the next week and a half off to do whatever they did for their seasonal holiday of choice.

McCree had promptly announced his plans to get trashed.

Angela had mentioned Paraguay.

"Not really a touristy kind place," he comments lightly. "Do they even have beaches there?"

Angela snorts as she marks a certain pile of documents for delivery, shaking her head.

"I'm not going for a vacation, Jesse. I'm going to work."

He frowns, looking up from where he'd been scratching a penis into the corner of Reyes' desk. "What?"

She shrugs. "You know, extended international aid. Doctors Without Borders. That kind of thing." She makes another quick note on another sheet before looking up with a quirked eyebrow. "Just…helping out where I can."

He frowns. "And Overwatch is okay with that?" he demands.

Angela pushes herself upright, crossing her arms as she studies him with a slightly bemused look.

"Yes?" her confusion makes it a question. "Honestly, Jesse. If they're okay with you going to get _shitfaced_ I can't see why—"

"Ain't it dangerous?" he cuts her off. "I mean, South America is still pretty heavy on Omnics, right?"

Angela shrugs. "Probably. I hadn't really looked into it."

He gives her a flat look. "Really."

"Really," she says again, shrugging. "I go where people need me, Jesse. Omnics be damned."

She feels his gaze on her as she turns around to stack up the rest of the documents, but ignores him, unable to see his issue.

"And yer family's okay with that?" he asks, frowning hard at her. "Like, ya ain't got presents to unwrap? Fuckin' carols to sing or whatever?"

Angela goes still, hands hovering over the stack of documents.

Right. Because that's what happens when you don't tell people things. They eventually stumble into them, full of love and life and good intentions, but that doesn't make it hurt any less—

"Ange?" She hears the desk creak as he pushes off of it, hears the frown in his voice. She still hasn't moved. "Ange, what's-?"

"They're dead." The words tumble out, almost clumsily, like when you say _ouch_ even though it doesn't hurt, or _sorry_ even when it's not your fault.

She swallows, refusing to face him. "They died years ago, in the initial waves of the war."

Silence. It's not as comfortable as it usually is, she notes with detachment.

"Angela…" McCree sounds as lost as she feels. "I...I'm sorry, I had no-"

"Of course you didn't," she mutters, finally kicking herself back into gear and scooping up the documents. "I never told you."

She finally turns, papers held to her chest, to see McCree watching her closely. His eyes—sharp as ever—reveal a mixed bag of compassion and hesitance. A desire to help but a strong understanding of the boundaries they've set so far.

"Right," he eventually offers. "I, uh. I woulda remembered that."

More silence. Angela wonders—off-handedly—how many time a single person can fuck up in one lifetime. Surely she's nearing her quota.

"When ya leavin'?" he eventually asks, voice softer than it had been before.

She tosses a quick glance at the clock. "Umm…they're flying me out in about twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?" Angela starts slightly as McCree forces himself off the desk to stand over her. "Jesus, Ange, were ya ever gonna say somethin'?"

She blinks at his sudden aggression. "I mean…I was planning on sending you a really tacky postcard, if that counts?"

He glares at her steadily. She guesses that's a _no_.

"Do you…do you want to come with me?" she asks, confident that's not the answer but unable to work out why he's upset.

He snorts. "Yeah. A fuckin' smartass ex-con. I'm sure that's _just_ what the doctor ordered."

She spreads her hands. "Then what do you want, McCree? I'm sorry I didn't tell you? I'm sorry I'm not going to get _drunk_ in a bar with you on _Christ—"_

She breaks off in surprise when he steps closer, reaching out to wind an arm around her waist and draw her up close, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

"Jus' be careful, ya big weirdo," he mutters. "Come back in one piece, alright?"

She nods, touched, and he pulls back.

"An' I'll be _expectin'_ that tacky postcard, got it?"

She smirks back, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Sure thing," she calls back. "Just let me know what bar to address it to."

-0-

Angela hears the chime and is already moving through the halls before she knows what she's doing.

It's a noise she's long memorized—and one that sometimes haunts her dreams—that subtly rings through the Gibraltar base, requiring medical attention at the landing pad for whatever party has just returned.

Angela's coat whips out behind her as she turns a corner sharply and rushes up the hill to the tarmac.

McCree. Reyes. McCree and Reyes. Whose _fucking_ idea was it for them to go on a _mission_ together, and to hunt down the _Shimada heirs_ of all _fucking things—_

Someone catches her arm, pulling her to a stop, and Angela whips her head around, gaze absolutely murderous, teeth half-bared—

Morrison holds up his hands in defense.

"They're gonna be fine," he tells her quietly.

"You don't know that," she snarls back, and takes off again, Morrison behind her.

They burst onto the tarmac, where the jet has just touched down, and Angela's heart seizes when she sees Reyes standing there, watching whatever is happening inside the belly of the jet, one arm slack at his side, clutching _Jesse McCree's stupid fucking hat—_

"Reyes," she gasps, reaching out to grab his arm when she trips to his side, Morrison on her heels. "Reyes, what _happened?"_

He glances at her, then his eyes go higher, probably meeting Morrison's gaze over her head, before dropping back down.

"Go back to the infirmary," he tells her, and his voice is ruinous.

Angela feels like she's moving through a dream, or fighting through some kind of current as the next half hour drags by. McCree is brought in on a gurney, looking like hell warmed over.

Angela almost breathes a sigh of relief—she's seen him in far worse states than this, this is nothing, if he can come back from that fucking disaster in Ilios, he can come back from—

Then she sees his arm.

Or, rather, she _doesn't_ see it.

She's sitting at his bedside, glaring at his vitals like she can bully them into improving, when he finally comes around.

For a moment, they sit in silence. Just quietly taking in each other's presence.

Then he heaves a sigh, and Angela braces herself.

"'M arm's gone, inn'it?"

Angela stares down at her hands. "Yes, Jesse," she says softly. "I'm sorry, it…it was gone when you got to me, I did everything I could. I wasn't there, I don't know what—"

"Shhh…" he hushes her tiredly. "Enough, Ange."

She falls silent, daring to lift her eyes to his. He's staring up at the ceiling, buckshot eyes glittering in the soft morning light.

"Did Reyes get it?"

Angela's heart cuts all ties with her chest and leaps into her throat.

"Did…did he get…?" She can't even finish the question. McCree sighs heavily, letting his head roll over to look at her.

"'M hat, Doc," he says. "Did Reyes pick up my damn hat er naw? 'Cause if I hafta go all the way back to Hanamura just to pick up that thing, I'm gonna—"

"No," she rushes out, nearly knocking her chair over in her haste to get to the counter, where she'd set the hat. She snatches it up, scrambling back to his side. "No, Jesse, it's—it's right here, Reyes brought it in…" she trails off as she sits back down, holding it up for him to see.

His lips quirk in a small smile.

"Well. That's somethin' at least, ain't it?"

Angela hesitates slightly, unsure what to do with it. It seems pointless to put it on his head when he's obviously going to be bedbound and sleeping for the foreseeable future. She runs her fingers across it, pondering, and feels his gaze—the heat of his eyes mocking the roar of a fire—and she makes a snap decision to jam it on her head.

McCree blinks, looking up at her as she gives the hat a quick tug to adjust it. It's a little too big for her, but she stares back at him evenly from beneath its brim.

There's a beat of silence. Then McCree coughs out a laugh, shaking his head.

"Ya look _ridiculous."_

Angela's mouth falls open in protest. _"What?"_ she demands. "This is _your_ stupid hat!"

"Yeah, 'n it belongs on _my_ stupid head." He's laughing, and Angela smiles back. There are tears in both of their eyes. Neither address them.

"Keep it, fer now," he mutters, offering her a small, sleepy kind of smile. He's got so many different drugs pumping through him, Angela likens him to a walking pharmacy. "If Morrison gets 'hold of it, he'll fuckin' burn it." A pause. "Who knows, maybe you'll shoot decently fer once in yer life it ya wear it."

She snorts. "Yeah. Maybe it'll trick Ana into giving me lessons," she adds dryly, and McCree closes his eyes with a quiet chuckle.

"You'll halfta give it back," he murmurs. "When I get sent packin', I mean."

Angela frowns. "You're staying right here," she tells him firmly. "This is where you belong, Jesse."

He offers her a smirk that reminds her too much of that disastrous first meeting. A fake twist of his lips meant to hide his thoughts and misdirect those he flashes it at.

"We'll see, Doc."

-0-

Angela smells the alcohol well before she sees him, and sighs quietly to herself.

She pulls her lab coat closer, folding her arms as she steps slowly into the abandoned mess hall, drawn to the only faint light in the whole room.

The refrigerator door is propped open, bathing the surrounding area in a soft yellow glow that makes the nearby bear cans shine. Angela can't necessarily see who's behind the door, due to her approaching angle, but the cowboy boots sticking out give her some idea.

She carefully negotiates her way around glass bottles that litter the floor, frowning hard at an entire handle of Fireball that winks in the light—completely empty.

She turns, peering around the refrigerator door to see one Jesse McCree sitting slumped up against the interior of the refrigerator, his amputated arm still heavily bandaged, his other hand holding a beer bottle.

_"_ _Jesse,"_ she breathes.

He looks up at the sound of her voice, and she frowns, disliking the way his razor-sharp eyes are dulled by the alcohol.

"Evening, Doc," he greets her, offering a crooked smile that's far messier and less practiced than his usual charmer's grin. "Wha's a fine lass like yerself doin' out here?"

Angela just crouches at his side, taking his chin in her hands to turn his face towards her, searching his eyes for vitals.

"Please tell me you did not take your medicine before drinking all of this," she says, voice deadly serious. She scans the room for a bottle of medication, but McCree just offers a husky chuckle.

"Naw, not tha' dumb," he tells her. He pulls his chin back to break her hold and takes another swig from the bottle. "'Sides, there're easier ways to go than that."

Angela glares hard at him. "You aren't _going_ anywhere, Jesse," she tells him fiercely.

He tips her a clumsy wink. "Tha' _you_ know of."

"Stop trying to be clever," she chides him with a frown. "You're drunk."

"I'm both." He smiles up at her. He looks _terrible_.

"Come on, then," she mutters, ducking low to loop his good arm around her shoulders. She tries to brace her legs and push herself up, but huffs at the resistance. "Why are you so _heavy—"_

"Leave m' be," McCree grumbles, and she realizes he's not assisting her at all. "I'll fin' my way back."

She blows out another breath, straining under his dead weight as she struggles to pull him to his feet.

"No, you won't," she retorts. "You'll drink yourself into a stupor and then—with _your_ luck—Morrison will be the one to find you, and that's not a problem any of us want _or_ need right now."

McCree snorts. "He's already gonna gimmie th' boot, don't see why you 'n Reyes are so hung up on it."

Angela's eyes flash in the darkness of mess hall.

"No one is giving anyone _the boot,"_ she argues fiercely, still trying to tug him upright. "You are staying— _right_ —here!"

She grunts with effort, and McCree starts as she actually lifts him off the floor a few inches, before gasping and letting him fall back down, where he lands hard on his backside.

_"_ _Ow."_

Angela huffs, facing him with her hands on her hips. "Well, if you'd just let me help you, that wouldn't have happened!"

"I'm a gunslinger with one fuckin' _arm_ , Angela!" he yells back, voice echoing loudly in the empty hall. "The fuck they gonna keep me 'round for? Charity?"

"It isn't charity," she tells him stiffly, hands fisted at her side, voice low and angry. "It's taking care of _family."_

That seems to catch him off guard, and he peers up at her in the near-dark of the mess hall, questioning.

"You trust me," she tells him softly, reaching down to brush hair out of his eyes. "Remember? You told me you did."

He stares back at her, eyes cloudy and dull.

"I 'member," he mutters. "Do…do you trus' me?"

Angela stands there—trying to haul a drunk, one-armed gunslinger with an impressive rap sheet and a missing medical history to his feet—and gives a firm nod.

"With my life," she tells him, voice deadly serious in the quiet of the mess hall. "So let's go, okay?"

He stares at her a little longer, and Angela holds out her hand—and offering.

After a moment, he gives a slow nod, swallowing hard.

"Alright," he mutters tiredly. "Alright, I'm comin'." He pauses to squint at her extended hand. "Stop movin' yer hand."

Angela blinks. "I'm not…" she just sighs, rolling up her sleeves and ducking down once again to loop his arm around her shoulders.

-0-

"A skull, huh?"

McCree twists his arm in the light. Angela observes the metal flash as it turns—he's already managed to scratch it, of course he has—and keeps her expression expertly schooled, knowing he's watching her face like a hawk.

"I dunno," he remarks. "Thought it might be cool."

She snorts to herself, shaking her head, unable to stop a smirk from quirking her lips.

"You're such a weirdo," she tells him pointedly, glancing up with humor in her eyes, and he grins back.

They're on the roof of the main building of the Gibraltar base—a hideaway that Angela used to scold at him endlessly about but had since become a space they share when they need room from everything but each other. She assumes, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this is what friendship is.

"Reyes said he liked it," McCree retorts, a hint of pride in his tone.

Angela rolls her eyes. "Of course he did," she mutters. "Remember when Ana had to talk him out of getting that barn owl tattoo? This is _exactly_ the kind of thing Reyes likes."

"To be fair, that looked _wicked."_

"It looked _horrendous_ and he was _drunk,"_ Angela counters. She shifts her weight, eyes tracing the shiny exterior of the prosthetic.

McCree just sighs, giving her a look.

"I know ya wanna touch it," he tells her. "Go ahead."

Angela's hands are on the arm in a moment, chattering—half to him, half to herself—as she runs her fingers over the surface, pokes at the hinges, pulls it closer to inspect the neon blue accents that mark the energy pulsing through it.

McCree fields her questions as best he can: yes, there are sensors that let him feel touch and temperature, no, it doesn't itch, yes, it's weird to sleep with it but it just takes getting used to, yes, I can crush metal with it, no, I didn't try it on that UN member's car out front, I don't know what you're talking about, Angela.

"Awfully curious there, Ange," he notes, not bothered but intrigued at her dogged questioning.

"I'm starting to bring Omnic technology into my research," she answers thoughtlessly, eyes still on his prosthetic. "I've been talking to Torbjörn and I'm thinking I can really reduce the amount of post-surgery recovery and general physical therapy if—"

She breaks off, glance up to meet his gaze, looking slightly alarmed.

She never talks about her research. Ever.

McCree watches her warily, like he expects her to bolt.

"Ya don'…ya don' halfta tell me anythin'," he offers when the silence grows uncomfortable. He shrugs. "I mean, I know yer pretty private—"

"I…" she bites her lip, flicking her gaze up to his. No one outside of Ana, Reyes, and Morrison know about her research, and even Ana and Morrison only know the bare bones.

"I…I work with…death," she explains quietly, eyes on his prosthetic.

She can feel McCree's dubious look.

"Ya don't fuckin' say."

She huffs a sigh, crossing her arms and looking up to frown at him.

"Specifically ways to…bypass it altogether," she adds stiffly.

A beat of silence. They stare at each other.

"Ya cheat death," he verifies slowly, searching her eyes from beneath the brim of his hat. She wonders if she could even get away with lying under those eyes. Probably not.

"That's the idea," she says, shrugging like this is an idle conversation not worth pursuing.

She fiddles with the belt loops of her jeans—a habit she'd picked up from McCree.

"I mean, if _I_ had to pick someone to have that kinda power," he says with a shrug. "I'd pick you."

Angela's chest loosens where it had been unbearably tight. She can't stop a small smile from blooming across her face, cheeks turning red at his praise.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

"I mean it," is his steady response.

She suddenly seizes him in a fierce hug, and he hesitates for a moment, thrown at her unexpected move, before his arms snake around and he holds her close, pressing his cheek against the side of her head where she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder.

"Please don't fucking do that again," she whispers.

She feels his responding chuckle more than she hears it.

"Didn't mean to upset ya, Darlin'," he murmurs.

She digs her nails into his back where she clutches handfuls of his shirt. "Don't joke," she orders sharply.

He runs his new hand across her back, and she can feel its coldness through her shirt.

"Hurry up an' finish yer field examination," he mutters. "Then ya can run away from magical fuckin' dragons right along with me."

Angela pulls back, frowning. There are tears streaking down her face, but she looks more confused than anything. "Dragons?"

"Yeah." McCree reaches out to wipe away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "Fuckin' _dragons."_

"Reyes mentioned the Shimadas had a…certain supernatural flair—"

"Did he also mention my arm got eaten by a _dragon?"_

"Um," Angela sniffs, wiping her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. "No?"

McCree heaves a very put-upon sigh, turning around to hook his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they begin to walk across the roof back to the stairwell.

"So we were in Hanamura, right? Lookin' for the Shimada whatevers. And outta _nowhere_ , this fuckin' asshole who needs a damn _haircut_ pops out, shoots an arrow, and then the arrow turns into a _fuckin' dragon."_

Angela can't help but laugh. "Did you shoot him?" she asks.

He scoffs. "'Course I fuckin' shot him. I gotta reputation to uphold."

She smiles, pressing closer to his side. "Jesse McCree: Dragon Slayer."

"Somethin' like that," he mutters, shaking his head. "Didn't do a whole lotta _slayin',_ per se."

"Guess I'll have to take care of that then," she says, elbowing him in the ribs with a smile. "Since I'll be with you next time and all."

He tosses her a smirk—her favorite one—his eyes glittering from beneath his hat.

"I guess ya will, Doc," he replies. "I look forward to seein' it."

**Author's Note:**

> _RISES FROM THE FUCKING DEAD_
> 
> _WHAT’S GOOD KIDS_
> 
> it’s your local disaster domino, back from hiatus hell. how’ve y’all been.
> 
> Anyway, pre-canon Mercy and McCree shenanigans? Sure. Why not.
> 
> Shoutout to my Bibi [@gaynervousdog](http://gaynervousdog.tumblr.com/) who read this over and made it a lot less shitty than it could have been.
> 
> _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
> **[MORE OVERWATCH WRITING](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=3406514) **
> 
> **[MAIN/PERSONAL BLOG](http://reduxroyal.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[WRITING DUMP](http://dominodebt.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[TWITTER](https://twitter.com/reduxroyal) **
> 
> ****


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